


Eight Days a Week

by missbecky



Category: Kingsman: The Secret Service (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Fluff, Hartwin Week, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-23
Updated: 2015-09-23
Packaged: 2018-04-22 23:14:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 12,197
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4854326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missbecky/pseuds/missbecky
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eight days a week is not enough to show I care. Love you every day, always on my mind.  A collection of prompt fills for Hartwin Week, plus one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. First Time

**Author's Note:**

> A collection of prompt fills for Hartwin Week plus one. Some of these were previously posted on Tumblr. Others are new, written especially for this story.

Eggsy's working at the shop, doing his part to maintain Kingsman's "other venture", when he sees the cab pull up to the curb. He smiles as he watches Harry step out into the gloomy afternoon – but almost immediately his smile vanishes.

Right away he knows something is wrong.

He comes out from behind the counter as Harry walks toward the shop and the cab drives away. Harry doesn't go up the steps with his usual little bounce; today his gait is slow and weary. And since he's just returned from a mission that he refused to tell Eggsy anything about, there can be only one reason for the change.

Harry pushes open the door and walks into the shop. He hesitates for a moment when he sees Eggsy, then he smiles. "I didn't know you were working here today."

"Good thing for you I am," Eggsy says. He can see it clearly – the stiffness in Harry's posture, the careful way Harry holds his left arm – and he knows what he has to do.

"Come on," he says. He leads the way to fitting room three, and it's kind of like time has rewound, only this time he's the one in charge, with Harry meekly following after. By the time Harry arrives, he's got the hook pulled and the doors open, and all they need to do is walk inside.

Since his first discovery of the cornucopia of wonders inside fitting room three, Eggsy has never done anything but go straight to the good stuff. Today, though, he stops just inside the room and looks at Harry. "All right," he says. "Tell me what happened."

Harry looks back at him with some exasperation. "I don't suppose we could skip the interrogation," he says tightly.

"Yeah," Eggsy says.

He was always pretty observant – he needed to be, to survive Dean and his ever-changing moods – but his time in Kingsman has taught him a lot about sizing someone up in a glance. And what he sees now is not reassuring. Harry's suit is as impeccable as ever, but there is blood on his cuffs, and another, larger splotch near the knot in his tie. His hair is not quite so neatly styled as usual, and there's a long scuff mark along one Oxford. 

Most telling of all, though, is the long slash in Harry's left sleeve. The fabric there has parted, and Eggsy can see that the shirt beneath is no longer white, but stained bright red.

"Off with that, then," he says. He walks over to the nearest bench and drags it over, its feet screeching on the wooden floor. He sets it down in front of the sink and then surveys the first-aid supplies gathered there.

He's never had to use any of this stuff. He's always known it was there, of course, but it was in the back of his mind, something meant for other people. Not himself. And especially not Harry.

A hard knot of anxiety settles itself in his chest at this thought. He can't stand the thought of Harry being hurt. Kentucky and V-Day weren't all that long ago, really. And now he's here with Harry, having to play nursemaid again, faced with another stark reminder of how dangerous their lives really are.

He's not sure he can do it.

"Eggsy?"

He startles and whips around. Harry stands in front of the bench, undressed to the waist, looking at him with some concern. "Are you all right?"

Eggsy wants to laugh. Harry's the one with the bleeding knife wound, and a seriously ugly bruise spreading across his ribcage, and he's asking if _Eggsy_ is all right.

Fucking hell. He needs to get his shit together.

"Yeah," he says. "Good. Just tryin' to figure all this stuff out. First time I've used it and all."

As usual, Harry sees right through him. "Eggsy," he says quietly, "it's all right. I'm fine."

It's true enough. The cut on Harry's arm is long, but shallow; it might not even scar. He must have been slashed when he raised his arm to block the attack. Which he probably only did out of surprise, because even the bulletproof Kingsman suit offers only minimal protection against a blade. Still, minimal is better than nothing, and Eggsy knows it could have been worse. A lot worse.

"I know that," he says, a bit defensively.

Harry moves toward him. "You needn't worry on my behalf," he says, still in those gentle tones. It should piss Eggsy off to be talked to like that, but it doesn't.

"Can't help it, can I?" he says. He tries to smile. " 's what happens when you love someone, I guess."

Harry's expression softens still further. "Yes," he says. "I suppose it does."

Eggsy wants to kiss him, wants to lay his hand over that awful bruise on Harry's ribs, wants to wrap both arms around him and hold him close forever. He wants today to be both the first and the last time he ever stands here with Harry while one of them is bleeding.

"Okay," he says, and he's pleased to hear how steady his voice sounds. "Have a seat. The doctor is in."

Harry sits, wounded arm held close to his body. "Dr. Unwin, is it?" he murmurs.

"Might be," Eggsy says as turns on the tap and starts to wash his hands.

"I shall have to remember that later," Harry says thoughtfully.

Eggsy's mouth goes dry as he realizes what Harry means. They've done the odd bit of roleplaying here and there, mostly stuff that started out as another lesson – like how to begin an interrogation, or seduce your mark – but this would be different. This would be pure fun, from start to finish.

"Dunno," he says, all casual-like as he opens a drawer and pulls out a few pads of gauze. Like he isn't thinking about it already. Like he hasn't become excruciatingly aware of how much bare skin Harry is showing right now. "I think you'll have to make an appointment."

"Perhaps when it's time to take the bandage off," Harry says.

And in spite of the rather serious nature of their current situation, Eggsy can't help grinning. He's no longer frightened or anxious, he realizes. He's quite calm. He's ready to do this. 

"Yeah," he says. "That sounds good."


	2. Gifts

He's in Moscow when he sees the letter opener resting on the desk of his mark. It looks like a miniature sword, delicate scrollwork on the silver hilt and tracing along the narrow blade. And even though there really isn't time to stop and admire the scenery, Eggsy pauses long enough to pick it up.

At once he knows he's holding the real deal. The weight of it alone tells him this is actual silver. And that sword shape isn't just for show – the point is sharp enough to do a lot of damage, should it ever come to that.

The letter opener comes with a small scabbard that is equally elaborate, completing the illusion of a sword. Eggsy slides the blade in the scabbard and then slips the whole thing in his pocket.

And then he promptly forgets about it until he arrives back home in London, forty-eight hours later.

****

He's been back for a couple days, suit cleaned and pressed, souvenirs taken over to Daisy and his mum, when he finally decides what to do with the letter opener. He took it purely on a whim, he's man enough to admit that. Theft is frowned upon by Kingsman; after all, he's supposed to be a gentleman, not a petty criminal.

But he likes it. He likes the look of it. So sleek and beautiful, so deceptively innocent-looking but deadly.

Exactly like the man he's going to give it to.

****

Outside it's drizzling, the temperature dropping as a cold front swoops in from the west. It's not quite late enough in the evening to be properly called late, but it's getting there. Eggsy climbs the stairs, a cup of tea in one hand, the letter opener in his other hand hidden behind his back.

Harry is in his office, frowning at something on his laptop. His tie is draped across the back of his chair and his collar is undone. He looks up when Eggsy appears in the doorway, and he smiles. "I thought you'd gone for a walk with JB."

"I did," Eggsy says. "It started to rain so we came back."

He walks forward and sets the cup down on the desk. "Here you go."

"Thank you," Harry says. He looks tired. They've all been putting in long hours lately, trying to prioritize and deal with the numerous unstable governments around the world. V-Day is the gift that just keeps on giving, Eggsy has thought bitterly on more than one occasion.

"Got somethin' else for you," he says, watching Harry sip at the tea.

Harry makes a little humming noise as he sets the teacup down. "Oh?"

Eggsy hands the letter opener to Harry, and has the satisfaction of seeing Harry's eyes widen.

"I saw it and thought of you," he says. It sounds kind of stupid, all sentimental and whatnot, but he doesn't really care.

Carefully Harry removes the letter opener from the scabbard. He holds it up, admiring the tracery along the blade, turning it this way and that so it catches the light. "It's very beautiful," he says. "And very old." He smiles up at Eggsy, genuinely pleased. "Thank you."

"Yeah," Eggsy says. He feels ashamed now for stealing it. He should have bought it. He should have had it wrapped, should have used fancy paper and a big shiny bow. He should have done this last week, last month. He never should have let things go on this long without taking the time to show Harry how much he loves him.

"Not that I'm ungrateful," Harry says, slipping the blade back into the scabbard, "but I do feel as though I'm missing something. Was there a reason you chose to give this to me?"

"No reason," Eggsy says.

Harry looks at him.

"Honest," Eggsy protests. "I just felt like it."

For a moment Harry continues to just look at him. He's obviously not sure how to respond, still searching for some ulterior motive behind the gift. Seeing that makes something deep inside Eggsy hurt, makes him feel weirdly hot all over. Like he could snatch up that silver letter opener and spin around and defeat a room full of enemies. Like he could stand here forever in defense of Harry.

"Well, thank you," Harry says again. "I must admit, I've never been given such a lovely gift before."

"Well, you should've," Eggsy says, still in that defensive mode. "You deserve it. And you better get used to it, too, 'cause there's gonna be plenty more where that came from."

Now Harry looks almost bewildered by his vehemence. "All right," he says. He lays the letter opener down on the desk beside his laptop, then gazes up at Eggsy. He seems about to say something, then changes his mind.

It's impossible how much he loves this man, Eggsy thinks. He wants to shower Harry with gifts, all those stupid little things that will show him much Eggsy cares. He wants to make up for all those years when he had no one at all and Harry had only Kingsman, when they both were so alone and didn't even know what they were missing. When there were no random presents, no kisses in the morning, no one beside them in bed at night to hold onto when the ugly dreams came.

"You done there?" he asks, gesturing to the laptop.

"For now," Harry says.

Eggsy grins. "Good," he says. He closes the laptop. " 'Cause I got one more present for you, but I can't give it to you in here."

"Oh?" Harry says. He leans back in his chair and looks Eggsy up and down.

"Yeah," Eggsy says. "And this one you get to unwrap." He touches the buttons on his shirt.

Harry smiles. "That's sometimes my favorite part about getting a present."

"Then you better get on with it," Eggsy says, and he starts backing away, toward the door.

"I expect I better," Harry says, and follows him.


	3. Inspired by a Song

It's become one of their favorite things to do on the weekend, a game with a serious side to it. Together they'll walk into a crowded public place: a museum, a shop, a restaurant. Eggsy has thirty seconds to observe as much as possible, using all his senses. Then they walk out, and Harry quizzes him. The more questions he gets right, the greater his "reward" that night in bed.

It's good training, it's a hell of a lot of fun, and Eggsy thoroughly enjoys it. Especially the part where he receives his prize.

This afternoon their scene of choice is an M&S filled with harried shoppers. The glass doors slide open, they walk in, and the game begins.

Eggsy stands perfectly still, taking it all in. He sees the mother with the stroller and the phone held to her ear; the two teenage girls giggling over something on one girl's phone; the bored man in the blue shirt who's waiting in line to pay for his pack of new socks. He hears the Muzak piped in overhead; the beat of a current pop song being used as someone's ringtone; the fretful whimpering of the child in the stroller. He smells perfume, the damp fabric of coats come in from the rain, the lemony scent of glass cleaner.

Harry always calls when it's time, making him turn around and walk out again before he can observe anything else. But not this time. Today Harry is silent, and at last it strikes Eggsy that he's been standing here way longer than thirty seconds, and he turns to see why.

Harry is standing beside him, absolutely rigid. He's gone white as a sheet, and he's breathing heavily. His gaze darts about the room, never lingering on any one thing for longer than a second, but taking it all in.

Shocked, Eggsy just stands there for a moment, unsure what to do. 

"Harry?" He reaches out and sets his hand on Harry's arm.

Harry reacts with smoothly concealed violence, his head whipping to the left so he can look at Eggsy. His right hand plunges upward toward his heart -- toward the gun he isn't wearing today.

Eggsy's blood runs cold at the sight.

A lady in a green coat looks at them curiously. Someone behind them mutters about rude people who stop just inside doorways. The bored man in line steps a little bit closer to the cash register. And overhead, the sickly sweet strains of "Freebird" continue to play over the Muzak.

"Harry." Eggsy keeps his voice pitched low. "It's okay. Come on. Let's go."

Harry glares at him for a heartbeat longer, seeing him only as a target, then he blinks and the spell is broken. He looks around, and now he just seems confused, the way he did all those months ago in the church, standing there while that fucking song played over his head.

Eggsy can't bear it. He takes Harry's arm and steers him out of the store. Outside it's gray and damp, and the air is heavy with the stink of London traffic. But there's no music out here, no lullaby that leads only to nightmares.

They stop on the pavement, out of the way of the pedestrian traffic. Already most of the color has returned to Harry's face. But he doesn't look at Eggsy as he says quietly, "I apologize. That was unforgivably rude."

Eggsy feels half a second away from just throwing his head back and shouting in fury. After everything that happened in Kentucky, after all those horrors that even now cut so sharp they draw blood, Harry still thinks he needs to apologize.

"It's okay," he says. He's never going to mention his terror at seeing Harry go for his gun, forgetting in his state of panic that he isn't in a suit today, that he's wearing a jumper and casual slacks, that this was supposed to be a day of fun.

Eggsy smiles a little, putting on a brave face, and reaches for Harry.

And Harry shies back.

Immediately Eggsy drops his hand. "You okay?" he asks.

"I'm fine," Harry says. He sounds as though he's regained his composure, but Eggsy can see the tremor in his hands, and he knows Harry is just as freaked out as he is. "But I think we should go."

"Yeah," Eggsy says.

They start walking, headed for home. They cross one street, then another. Eggsy lets his hand brush against Harry's, seeking his fingers.

Harry jerks away. He covers the gesture by checking his watch, but there's no mistaking what he's really doing.

Fine then. Eggsy can take a hint.

****

They don't say a word the entire way home. It's not until they get inside and their coats are hung up, JB is taken care of, and the teakettle is on the stove, that Eggsy finally speaks.

"What happened—"

"It was the music," Harry says quickly. He stands in front of the stove, and he still won't look at Eggsy. "I apologize. I hadn't thought it would affect me so, to hear it again. I hope I didn't worry you."

The words are so brittle, and Eggsy's throat closes up a little bit tighter with each one. "Well, too bad," he says. "I _am_ worried. About you."

Harry's shoulders hunch inward a little as he stares blankly at the kettle. "Well, you needn't," he says. "I'm fine now. And it won't happen again, I can assure you."

Eggsy takes a deep breath. "Yeah, it will."

Harry freezes. There's a terrible, haunted look on his face. Eggsy hates himself for putting it there, but he won't take it back. He can't.

He knows what it's like, is the thing. He grew up in a house, in a neighborhood, where weakness wasn't allowed. (Submission, sure, Dean practically demanded that, but weakness? Fuck no.) He knows the cost of pretending day in and day out that nothing's wrong, that you're fine, you're just great, things couldn't be fucking better.

After V-Day, he went to one of the doctors at Kingsman. Only a couple times, but it had helped. Just talking about it had helped. When he stopped going, the doctor had called him up one afternoon, asking if he was planning to come back. He had said no, that he was fine now, but thanked her anyway.

"I understand," she had said after a long pause. "But I want to you know, it takes real strength to know when you need help."

A lot of things have happened since then, but he's never forgotten that.

The kettle starts to whistle. Harry jerks back, and for one awful second he makes another one of those reaches across his chest, searching for the gun and holster that isn't there.

"Sit down," Eggsy says. "I got this."

Shaken, Harry nods. "Thank you," he murmurs. He leaves the kitchen and sits at the head of the dining room table, where Eggsy sat once and had his own private toast to a fallen Kingsman.

Eggsy goes past him and into the kitchen. He pours the tea and brings their mugs into the dining room. He sets them down, one at Harry's place, one at his own, but he doesn't sit.

"It's okay, you know," he says.

"I would prefer not to talk about it," Harry says tightly. His hands are clasped on the tabletop; he's gripping his own fingers hard enough that his knuckles are white.

"I know what you're thinkin' right now," Eggsy says. And he does. He knows all about the shame, the anger, the self-loathing. They're his old friends, and they sure do hate to say good-bye. "I mean, how do you think I feel every time I wake up screaming at night, thinking I'm back there in Valentine's bunker, and you gotta hold me until I stop shaking and crying? It sucks, it fucking _sucks_ , but I know, Harry. I _know._ "

They've talked a little bit about V-Day before. Not much, but some. But they've never talked about what happened at the church that day. And that just ain't right. 

He aches all over for Harry. For himself, too. For what they've been through, for what they still have to face in the weeks, months, years, ahead of them.

But this is the thing. This is what he learned from those talks with the doctor. It's not about pretending to be strong, it's not even about asking for help. It's knowing that you don't have to face it alone. He's not that scared kid spending his life pretending to be tough and fierce so no one would hurt him. And Harry isn't the perfect gentleman who lived in solitude for so long that he never really learned how to accept a helping hand.

"You don't gotta do this alone anymore," he says. "That's what you got me for."

Harry stares up at him, that haunted look still in his eyes, and Eggsy can see the exact moment when he decides to let himself believe what Eggsy is saying. 

Even before Harry nods, he's moving in close. He stands perfectly still as Harry wraps both arms around him. He doesn't say anything as Harry bows his neck until the top of his head is pressed to Eggsy's chest. He knows better than that.

Some wounds can't be healed with words.

He rests one hand on the back of Harry's neck. With the other, he gently rubs Harry's back.

They're gonna be okay. Not tonight, not tomorrow, not even this year, probably.

But someday.


	4. Undercover

"To Eggsy," says Beezer, "our newest recruit."

There's a round of congratulations as the gang members welcome him. Chaz even breaks into applause. Eggsy stands there in their midst with his arms folded across his chest and tries to look cool and confident.

But when Robby starts looking around, searching for the heroin he's got stashed away somewhere, Eggsy speaks up. When he agreed to infiltrate this little gang for Kingsman, he agreed to do whatever was required of him – but he told Arthur up front that he wouldn't have nothing to do with drugs. "So what are we waitin' for? Let's do this."

"Yeah, about that," says Beezer. "You're in now, we all agree…but there's just one thing you gotta do first."

"What's that?" Eggsy says. Because he's not supposed to know what they expect of him now. He's not supposed to know the final entry fee he has to pay in order to join their little gang.

"You know what we're about," says Beezer. "You know what we stand for. It's gonna be a long struggle to achieve our goals, but we can do it." He pauses. "But for that to happen, some people are gonna have to die."

Eggsy just nods, like this doesn't bother him one bit. "Yeah. Shame, that."

Beezer looks at him. "Starting now."

Eggsy pretends to be surprised, even though he knew this was coming. After a few seconds he pulls the gun they gave him when they accepted him as one of them. "Let's go, then. No time like the present, yeah?"

Moving in a pack, they go outside. It's raining, which is good. It's harder to see blood when everything is wet -- or a lack of it.

It's late enough and the weather is foul enough that there's nobody else out at this hour. Just an older guy on the other side of the street. He's wearing a threadbare brown suit and matching hat. He's soaked through from the rain and walking slowly.

Eggsy swallows hard and hopes nobody notices.

They planned it all ahead of time, of course. Him and Harry sitting together in their living room, in the coffee shop down the street, in the library at Kingsman HQ. Days spent making plans, taking enough time to get all the details right for half a dozen contingencies and unexpected diversions.

That still doesn't mean he's ready to go through with this.

But he has no choice, not if he wants to do his job. He told Arthur he would go undercover, infiltrate Beezer's little gang of wannabe anarchists with their chemical bomb hidden somewhere in one of their hideouts. 

He promised Harry he would do whatever he had to do.

So he squares his shoulders and crosses the street. "Hey!" he calls to the man in the brown suit.

Harry looks over and sees Eggsy coming toward him, Beezer's gang trailing along behind him. He glances around fearfully, playing his part to the fullest.

"Ya shouldn't be out this late, grandad," Eggsy says. Around these guys he roughens his accent, stretches out his vowels, is almost a parody of the punk he used to be. "Ya could get 'urt."

Before he can freeze up and overthink the whole thing, he raises the gun and shoots Harry twice in the chest.

Harry sinks to the ground with a low groan of pain, then lies utterly still.

It happens exactly like they had planned, but Eggsy is still paralyzed with horror. He's done some terrible things in his life and felt bad about them, but none of that shit compares to how he feels right now. He knows he will never forgive himself for this, never believe that this was all right.

Beezer claps him on the shoulder, forcing him to stay rational and not give in to the nauseating burn of self-loathing. "Good job." A few of the other gang members nod and murmur approvingly.

Chaz moves toward where Harry lies on the pavement, his hat off to one side, rain falling into his upturned face. The sight of it sickens Eggsy, makes him want to vomit and scream at the same time. He doesn't even think, just aims the gun at Chaz and snaps, "Get the fuck away from him!"

Instantly the mood around him turns hostile. Everyone stares at him.

Eggsy thinks fast. He's got about two seconds to flip things around or this is gonna go south real fucking quick. Playacting under pressure has always been one of his strong suits, though – one of the bonuses of growing up in Dean's house. "He's my kill," he says. "That means his stuff is mine, too."

Chaz looks at Beezer. Beezer studies Eggsy. After a moment he shrugs. "Fair enough."

Reluctantly, Chaz backs away. Eggsy rucks up his jacket and shoves the gun in the waistband of his jeans. He drops to one knee beside Harry's body and starts going through his pockets, just one more criminal robbing the dead.

As he reaches beneath the suit jacket, his hand brushes Harry's hand where it's lying limp on his chest. Quickly, not moving at all in any other way, Harry squeezes his fingers.

Eggsy breathes a little easier then. It's one thing to know theoretically that everything would be fine, that the shabby-looking suit was bulletproof like all the others, that Harry wouldn't actually be hurt. But it's an enormous relief to have proof of it, to _know_ that Harry is okay.

He stands up, Harry's battered wallet in his hand. "Got it."

"Okay, then," Beezer says. He turns away, already headed for their hideout. "Let's go. We got a lot to do and not a lot of time to do it in."

They walk back across the street, Eggsy in their midst, completely accepted now as one of them.

Behind them, Harry lies in the rain, unmoving.

****

Three weeks later it's all over, the gang arrested, the bomb found and dismantled. The mission is considered a success – but Eggsy can't shake the dark weight that seems to have permanently settled on his shoulders. At night he has a difficult time falling asleep; he keeps seeing Harry in the rain, falling to the ground.

"I fed JB," Harry says.

"Thanks," Eggsy murmurs. His video game has been on pause for twenty minutes now. He's been staring at the screen for nearly that long, not actually seeing it.

Harry sits beside him. After a long moment he rests his hand on Eggsy's right shoulder. His thumb moves back and forth in a light stroking motion.

Eggsy stares at the TV until it blurs and becomes meaningless through his tears.

"I knew the risks," Harry says quietly. "As did you."

Eggsy blinks, and the tears streak down his face.

"We did all right," Harry says. "I'm very proud of you."

Blinded, Eggsy turns toward him, his mouth opening in a silent sob.

Harry enfolds him in a strong embrace. "You did the right thing," he says.

He can't hold out any longer then. He sobs on Harry's shoulder, asking for forgiveness, for absolution. _Don't ever make me do that again_ , he wants to beg. 

But he knows he will, if Harry asks it of him. 

Of course he will.


	5. Angst

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is major character death in this chapter. This one is not a fix-it, sorry!

Two weeks after Kentucky, after V-Day, Eggsy finds himself on his knees on the bathroom floor of Harry's old house, sobbing into his hands.

He doesn't want to be here. He only agreed to come because the house is now officially his, thanks to Harry's will, which had been updated a mere two days before his last, fatal mission. It's Eggsy's first time back here since V-Day, and he already knows he isn't going to make it.

He wanders through the rooms, touching things here and there. The dining room table, the glass decanters still full of expensive liquor. Everything is lightly coated with a sheen of dust.

Slowly he climbs the stairs. He doesn't go in the office with its red walls and newspaper headlines. He's not sure he can ever go in there again, that room where he watched Harry die.

Harry's bedroom is as neat as the man himself was, everything in its proper place. The only concession to the haste of his leaving is the beige cardigan tossed carelessly across the bed. Eggsy looks at it and his eyes fill with helpless tears.

_Harry, I'm so sorry._

_You should be._

Of all the things he regrets, the fact that they parted badly is the one that torments him the most.

He walks into the bathroom. There are bottles of pomade and cologne lined up along the sink. A hairbrush. Toothbrush in a cup. Expensive soap. All of it never to be used again.

In the medicine cabinet there is toothpaste, a bottle of paracetamol, and another bottle, this one a prescription. Stronger painkillers, only a few of the large white pills remaining inside. _To be taken as needed_ , says the label.

Eggsy stares at that bottle, and his heart breaks. He drops it, and it rolls into the sink. Then he can't see anything anymore, his sight is gone for the tears burning in his eyes, and he can't stand this, he can't do this, he _can't_.

The floor is hard beneath his knees. He buries his face in his hands and he sobs with horrible keening noises, and he would give anything, anything in this world to feel a warm hand on his shoulder and a kind voice speaking words of comfort.

But no one comes.

****

Three days later he has the contents of the house boxed up and stored in the loft. He buries Mr. Pickle in the garden, but everything else is gone.

He keeps only three things: the bottle of Harry's cologne, a pair of his reading glasses, and the beige cardigan.

****

Six months into being a Kingsman, and Eggsy knows it's not the job that's going to kill him. It's the grief.

Everywhere he looks, the ghost of Harry is already there. He pleaded with Merlin for a different code name to no avail. He is Galahad now, and a portrait of Harry hangs in the hallway of honor for all those agents who have died in the line of duty. He sees Harry when he looks in the mirror, the way he parts his hair on the same side, the same pinstriped bespoke suit, the same glasses.

The house where he now lives with his mum and Daisy is full of memories. The boxes in the loft whisper his name at night, beckoning him to open them up and go through their contents, all those old framed butterflies and polka-dotted ties. At night he lies in the bed where Harry once slept, and he buries his face in the pillow, and on the night he finally has to accept that he can't smell Harry anymore, he cries for hours.

****

Only Roxy understands, and she only knows a little. He can't make himself say the words out loud, give them weight and substance. She probably knows anyway, but she never forces him.

"It just kills me, ya know," he says. He showed up on her doorstep again, closer to drunk than sober, but she let him in without a word, the way she always does. "Wonderin' what…" His throat closes up and he can't finish.

He thinks _what might have been_ are the saddest words in any language.

****

The new Arthur expresses concern. "You take unnecessary risks, Galahad. I would hate to see something happen to you."

Eggsy nods and makes all the appropriate responses and promises to do better, to be better.

Roxy sees right through him. As they sit in a pub one night, she asks him straight out, "Do you really have a death wish?"

Shocked, Eggsy stares at her. "What are you on about? Of course I don't!"

"You could have fooled me," she says calmly, and eats another chip.

"I guess I must've," he says indignantly, " 'cause that ain't true."

"Okay," Roxy says. "I believe you." She sets her hand on his wrist. "I just worry about you, that's all."

"Well, don't," Eggsy says. "I'm fine. I'll be fine."

****

He brushes the dead leaves away from the tombstone and sits back on his heels. "I'm off to Budapest later today," he says. "Merlin gave me all the intel I need. I started reading it, saw you was the last one to go there, and I just…" He sighs. "I dunno."

In truth, he had spaced out. He had seen Harry's name on the mission reports, and the world had receded all around him. There was just that name on the page and nothing else. It was just a printout, cold black type against white paper, not even handwriting he could stare at and drink in. He never saw Harry's writing, never saw him sign his name.

"I think I'm losing it," he says, small and shaky. "Ector says I need to get a grip. Roxy keeps looking at me like she's waiting for me to do something. Go mental, I guess." He tries to laugh, but it comes out this watery gasping noise.

"I miss you," he whispers. He traces the lines carved in the tombstone, all capital letters. The dates, far enough apart that most people would say it was a life well-lived, but Eggsy knows that for the bullshit it is. It's never enough time.

Never.

"Anyway," he says, "don't know when I'll be back, so I wanted to visit 'fore I left." _Stay in touch_ , they say, and what a fucking joke that is, he hasn't even _stayed in touch_ with his best mates from before V-Day. He has nothing in common with them anymore, he's seen things and done things they could never understand. He's had his heart broken, and there is nothing they could ever say to make that better.

He rises to his feet and brushes the soil from his trousers. "I'll come back when I get home," he says.

_I'll sort this mess out when I get back._

"I'll always come back," he promises.


	6. Domestic

Being a Kingsman isn't like other jobs. There are no 9 to 5 hours, no bank holidays, no weekends. The bad guys of the world don't take Saturday afternoons off, after all. When there is work to be done, a Kingsman does it, no matter the day or time. That is the job, that is the life. That's just how it is.

That doesn't mean, however, that a man can't develop a certain schedule and stick to it as much as possible.

For Harry that means Sunday evenings are his time to relax. He reads a book or watches a film on DVD. If he goes online it's not to do mission-based research, but to check if anything new and interesting has come up at any of the auction houses he follows, or to play a few games of online chess, a vice he can't seem to shake.

He doesn't go out, because he's too well-trained to ever really relax in public – he's always watching the people around him, noting where their hands are and checking to see if they're looking at him just a trifle too long. No, Sunday nights he stays in, relishing the solitude, the clean house around him, the satisfaction of a reward well-earned.

For many years it goes that way, a quiet routine that he tries his best to maintain.

Until Eggsy enters his life, and everything changes.

****

Now Harry still stays in on Sunday nights, but he no longer spends them in solitude. Now he shares not only his house, but his life with someone else.

And he wouldn't have it any other way.

Tonight he's on the couch, reading his latest book, a fascinating look at the history of English medieval warfare. The chapter on Agincourt reminds him that it's been a while since his last archery proficiency test. It's been six years since he fired a crossbow in any situation other than the weapons range, but one never knows when such a skill could come in handy. It's always best to be prepared.

Harry makes a mental note to check in with Percival on Monday morning, then glances up.

Across from him, Eggsy is doing his ironing. Kingsman suits can't be taken to any old dry cleaners; the bulletproof fabric defies conventional cleaning methods, so the shop on Savile Row has laundry facilities for its agents. But their shirts and ties and other accessories are their own responsibility. Sunday is often laundry day, and that means ironing.

Oblivious to Harry's gaze, Eggsy stands at the ironing board. A few stray locks of hair fall over his forehead, almost hiding the fading bruise he got on his last mission. He's got his earbuds in, his hips moving a little to the beat of his music; occasionally his lips move as he mouths the words. He's wearing nothing remarkable, just a striped shirt and jeans, but he still looks beautiful.

Completely enchanted, Harry watches him work. Eggsy moves the iron across the shirt draped over the ironing board with an economy of motion that Harry appreciates very much, swishing the point of the iron in between buttons and across pockets with swift, efficient strokes. He sets it aside and shifts the shirt on the ironing board, then smooths it over with a sweeping movement of his palm. Then he picks up the iron and resumes his work.

Behind him stands a mobile clothes rack, shirts hanging from it in two clusters, one set finished, one waiting to be done. It looks like he's only got one more to do before it's Harry's turn.

Which means there isn't much time to finish his chapter.

Harry returns to his book. He glances up at first every so often, checking on Eggsy's progress, but before too long the medieval world entices him back, and he loses himself in thoughts of Agincourt and archery. He finishes the chapter with a mixture of regret and satisfaction, and closes the book.

He looks up, and blinks in surprise.

It's been at least twenty minutes since he last checked the time, but Eggsy is still at the ironing board. The number of shirts hanging on the rack remains the same, but the ones that are finished, with crisp lines and starched collars, are now numerous. Only one remains on the far side of the rack, a bit wrinkled and in need of attention.

Chagrined, Harry puts his book down. "Eggsy."

With the earbuds in, Eggsy doesn't hear him. It's not until Harry stands up and he spies the movement out of the corner of his eye that he looks up. "What?" He plucks one earbud out so it dangles down his chest.

"You're ironing my shirts," Harry says, and immediately feels ridiculous for pointing out the obvious.

Eggsy looks nonplussed as he pulls the other earbud out. "Yeah." His shoulders come up. "Why? Am I doing it wrong or somethin'?"

"Of course not," Harry says quickly. "I just…" He shakes his head. "You didn't have to do that. You should have let me know it was my turn."

Eggsy smiles, his eyes lighting up. " 'S okay," he says. "I don't mind. 'Sides, you looked so comfy sittin' there readin' your book. I didn't want to interrupt."

"Thank you," Harry says. He still feels guilty, though. He never wants Eggsy to feel like he has to earn his keep, or behave in any way that implies Harry is the head of the household. They live here together now. They get in each other's way in the small kitchen. They take turns making the bed in the morning. They've shagged twice on the stairs and three times in the laundry room. This is as much Eggsy's house as it is his.

"Go back to your book," Eggsy says. He gestures with his chin. "I got this."

"I'm sure you do," Harry says. He walks over to the ironing board and pushes the mobile rack out of the way; it slides back on its wheels, giving him enough space to stand behind Eggsy.

"What're you doin'?" Eggsy says, his voice thick with suspicion.

"Nothing," Harry says in his most innocent tones. "I merely thought I would keep you company."

"Oh," Eggsy says. "Okay." He hesitates a moment longer, then picks up the iron and starts gliding it along the back of the shirt he was working on.

Mindful of the hot iron, Harry slides his arms around Eggsy's waist and folds his hands atop the smoothness of Eggsy's stomach. He breathes in, smelling Eggsy's shampoo and aftershave, faint now at the end of the day, but still present. He can hear the music from the earbuds draped over Eggsy's shoulders, a thumping, insistent beat that never relents. Slowly he bows his head until his cheek rests on the softness of Eggsy's hair.

"I love you," he says.

Eggsy's shoulders lift as he huffs out a laugh. "You're such a romantic dope," he says fondly.

In response, Harry gives him a little squeeze. "I'm afraid you've found out my dirty little secret," he says.

"Oh, it ain't as secret as you think," Eggsy says as he adjusts the shirt on the ironing board again.

That's a tiny bit alarming; Harry would like to believe that he's not transparent, even when he's around Eggsy. Evidently he's not done as good a job in that area as he thinks.

"But it's okay," Eggsy says. "I love you, too." He turns his head, and Harry leans in, and they kiss.

"Would be a shame to stop now," Eggsy says. "Just one shirt left."

"It's all right," Harry says. "I don't need it. I was planning to wear that rock band T-shirt on Tuesday, anyway."

"You were never!" Eggsy laughs.

"No," Harry admits, "but now you're picturing it, aren't you?"

"Fuck yeah I am," Eggsy says. He sets the iron down, conceding the battle with barely a fight. He turns around in the circle of Harry's arms so they're facing each other. "Though I'm having more fun picturing what you would look like _out_ of that shirt."

"Then I suppose you don't need your memory refreshed," Harry says.

"Maybe just this once," Eggsy says with a grin, and plucks at Harry's shirt.

Together they head for the stairs, kissing each other and already reaching for clothing that's just in the way. They don't even make it halfway up the steps, though, before Eggsy suddenly gasps, "Shit!" He turns around and runs back downstairs.

At a loss, Harry stands there and watches.

Eggsy hurries over to the ironing board, where the half-ironed shirt hangs forlornly still. He turns the iron off and unplugs it. "Better," he says.

Harry smiles, and waits for Eggsy to rejoin him.


	7. Alternate Universe

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This takes place in [the soulmate AU I wrote for the Hartwin Secret Santa](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4632567), but you don't need to have read that one in order to read this.

He's getting off the bus when the sudden pain pierces his chest. It takes him by such surprise that he can't even cry out. He just stumbles and falls to the pavement, landing painfully on his hands and knees, the Rainmaker trapped beneath him.

All around him people exclaim and rush forward to help. A young woman accuses the teenage boy behind him of pushing him off the steps. A man in a cheap suit puts an arm around him and helps him up. An older lady tries to shoo everyone else away.

Harry notices all this with one corner of his mind. The rest of his attention is focused on that pain in his chest. It's not _his_ pain, he knows that. It comes from his soulmark, that red crown imprinted just above his heart.

This pain belongs to his soulmate. To Eggsy.

"Merlin," he gasps. He pushes aside the helping hands of the people clustered around the bus, for once in his life uncaring if he's seen as rude. He gets past them all and heads down the street, completely forgetting about the shop he had originally been intending to visit.

"I'm here," says Merlin, over the glasses.

"Eggsy," Harry says. "Where is he?" The pain in his chest is rapidly fading, but somehow that only increases his fear. It's been a while since he felt this way, since Eggsy was under enough distress for him to feel it through the bond connecting them.

"His last known location…" There's a slight pause while Merlin checks his screens. "Not far from where you are, actually." He names a street and a pub, and it is indeed close by.

"Headed there now," Harry says. He doesn't know why Eggsy has come out this way, doesn't know what trouble Eggsy has got himself into. All he knows is that whoever has hurt Eggsy, whoever has _dared_ to hurt him, will pay for it.

"Galahad." Merlin hesitates, but the use of the code name is telling enough. He knows what Harry intends – and he knows there is no stopping him.

"Last transmission?" Harry walks swiftly down the street, noting the traffic, both pedestrian and vehicles. He has the Rainmaker and a lighter in his pocket, and two guns beneath his suit jacket. It might be enough. It might not be. Either way, he is going through with this. 

He is getting Eggsy back.

"A request to stand by," Merlin replies. "He must have seen something of interest in the pub, but he removed his glasses before going in."

Eggsy knows better than that, but Harry decides not to worry about such puzzling behavior just now. Eggsy must have had his reasons. He has to trust in that.

He rounds the corner and heads down the street. He pays more attention now to the people he passes, checking them over for signs of undue staring, for anyone who might be a little too interested in the gentleman with the suit and umbrella. He has no reason to believe that whoever hurt Eggsy knows anything about Kingsman, but he isn't about to take any chances.

He crosses another street, and now every inch of him is taut with tension; his heart is beating rapidly. He can see the pub now, getting closer with every step. He passes a place doing a brisk business in dodgy takeaway, and then he feels the sudden spark of warmth in his chest that means his soulmate is nearby.

"He's here," Harry says quietly.

"Be careful," Merlin says. "I've got Percival on standby."

Harry nods, then steps into the pub.

It takes a moment for his eyes to adjust to the dim light inside. He stands still then, waiting to be able to see again, hating that momentary helplessness. Blind, he strains outward with all his other senses, seeking to understand the room he's just entered – how many people are here, where they are, what they're doing. He smells beer and cigarette smoke, counts the sounds of at least five people but acknowledges that there could be as many as eight, and tightens his grip on the Rainmaker.

The only thing that makes it bearable is that warm glow from his soulmark, signifying Eggsy's presence.

"Six of them," Merlin says in his ear, having figured out why he isn't moving. "Two at your ten o'clock, one at—"

"I see," Harry says tersely, barely moving his lips. For he does see, now.

The other people aren't important. The only one who matters is Eggsy. Who just so happens to be sitting at a table across the room, nursing a pint that looks completely untouched. He seems unharmed; his hair is still carefully styled, his suit is still pristine, his tie still perfectly knotted.

"Didn't think you'd show up quite so soon," he mutters as Harry walks up.

"What happened?" Harry asks. He can't see any marks on Eggsy, anything to explain the sudden pain he had felt on the bus. Carefully, barely moving his head, he looks around the pub, making sure there isn't anyone watching them – it's possible that Eggsy has been coerced into this show of normalcy.

Eggsy screws up his face. "You felt it, huh?"

"Of course I did," Harry says. He's been sharing Eggsy's pain for over half his life, since they became soulmates.

Eggsy sighs a little. He reaches for his glass, but doesn't drink. He just wraps his fingers around it and holds on tight.

That's when Harry knows for sure that there is nothing else going on here.

They don't need Merlin now, or Kingsman. What they need is some privacy. So he removes his glasses and slides them carefully into his front breast pocket, behind the white linen square nestled there. He doesn't set his hand on Eggsy's, but only because he knows such a display would not be welcome in a place like this. "Tell me," he says.

Eggsy's shoulders sink even lower. "Ryan was here," he says, so low Harry has to strain to hear it. He knows that name should mean something, but he comes up empty.

"I haven't seen him since I left that night," Eggsy says. "For Kingsman." Fortunately his eyes are on his glass; he doesn't seem to have noticed Harry's moment of cluelessness. "Jamal almost killed him on V-Day. They don't talk or nothin' anymore. I knew he'd moved away, but I didn't know where. I haven't seen him in weeks, but I saw him go in here, so I followed him in." He looks up at Harry, completely miserable. "He's sellin' again."

"Oh," Harry says quietly. He understands now, just as he remembers who Ryan is.

This is not something he can fix, though. This is not an enemy he can fight, or a situation he can rush into and rescue Eggsy from. This is not a pain he can lift from Eggsy's heart, or a hurt that will go away any time soon.

"I'm sorry," he says. "I know that must have been difficult for you."

Eggsy's lips twist in a bitter smile. "I forget sometimes," he says, "how lucky I got when I met you. My friends…they don't got that kinda luck."

"Perhaps you can reach out to them," Harry suggests. There is no question about any of Eggsy's friends from his old life becoming Kingsman agents, but places could possibly be found for some of them within the organization – always assuming they pass the requisite tests first. Loyalty and discretion aren't just for agents, after all.

"Last time I saw him, he said he had quit," Eggsy says, the hurt still raw in his voice. "When I tried to talk to him just now, he told me to fuck off, and then he left."

And suddenly Harry feels another rush of fierce protective love, the same need to keep Eggsy safe that brought him out to this dark little pub with nothing but the sure knowledge that he would find Eggsy here. It's the same love that drove him to live in Kentucky, even when it seemed certain that he would die in the car park outside that church. 

The same love that has made his life so much brighter than he would ever have thought possible.

"You can't save everyone," he says. "I know that doesn't make it any easier, because he's your friend—"

"Fucking right it doesn't," Eggsy says. He leans back in his seat and crosses his arms, a sullen expression on his face. Seeing him this way reminds Harry poignantly of that first day in The Black Prince, a pub which hadn't been any grander than this one. He remembers the shock he had still been struggling with, the notion that this young man with the checkered past and the filthy mouth was his soulmate.

But what he remembers more than anything, was the way he had already been falling in love.

"Your friend might meet his soulmate here," Harry says. "He or she might be the only one who can help him. Or he might not meet anyone. It's out of your hands, Eggsy. The only thing you can do is be here for him, if he decides he needs your help." He catches the eye of the barkeep and shakes his head slightly; they won't be drinking here. In fact, he hopes they will be leaving very soon.

"You've done all you can," he adds.

"Yeah," Eggsy sighs. He scowls, then glances Harry up and down. "What happened to you, by the way?"

"Yes," Harry says briskly, suddenly remembering how he had found out about this little incident in the first place. "It seems I may have fallen off a bus."

Eggsy's eyes grow very wide. "Fuck, Harry," he breaths. "You okay?"

"Of course," he says. "Only my pride was hurt." Well, that and his skinned palms. And his knees; later tonight he'll have trouble climbing the stairs to their bedroom. Not that he'll let Eggsy know, of course.

Eggsy shakes his head. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be ridiculous," Harry says. Of all the times over the years when he's been distracted by the sudden flare of Eggsy's pain, this is probably the least distressing occasion. Certainly it's nothing compared to the time when he had been so taken off guard that he had been shot by one of the villains he had been trying to apprehend at the time.

He reaches for the Rainmaker where it's propped against their table. "Should we go?"

"Yeah," Eggsy says. He glances at his beer. "Tasted like shit anyway." He manages a faint smile.

It's not much of a smile, but it reassures Harry all the same. Eggsy is the most adaptable person he's ever known; not much gets him down, or for long. He'll bounce back from this pain, the way he always does, and most likely never refer to it again. Only Harry will ever know it existed at all.

They walk out of the pub, each of them holding their umbrella. Harry put his glasses on and says, "Objective achieved." That earns him a raised eyebrow from Eggsy, but he forestalls any comment by adding, "I do believe we're calling it a day. See you tomorrow." And before Merlin can reply, he takes the glasses off again and puts them away.

He smiles at Eggsy. "Now, I had thought I would try that new risotto tonight. Interested?"

Eggsy looks at him, so dear, so precious. Harry can't imagine a life without him, a life where he and Eggsy aren't so strongly connected that they share each other's deepest emotions. He supposes there must be a world out there like that, but if so, he doesn't want to live in it.

"Yeah," Eggsy says. "That sounds good, actually."

Harry nods. When they get home he will take Eggsy into his arms and attempt to kiss away the last of the pain Eggsy's supposed friend caused. It won't work, of course, because such things never do, but he will try anyway. Because he loves Eggsy. Because he would do anything for him.

"Then let's go home," he says.


	8. Painting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With many thanks to [mevh88](http://archiveofourown.org/users/mevh88/pseuds/mevh88) for such a fun fic idea.

Eggsy hasn't even finished moving in when he says, "So does this mean you're gettin' rid of Mr. Pickle?"

Harry stops dead, a box full of Eggsy's belongings in his arms. "Why on earth would I do that?"

Eggsy shrugs, his mouth turning down in a far-too innocent expression. "I'm just sayin'. Now that I live here too, seems only fair I should get some say in the decoratin' and all."

Theoretically this is true, but it's also true that Eggsy owns virtually nothing in the way of interior decorating. In his old room he had posters of video games and the like, but he didn't bring them with him – not that Harry would have permitted such things to be hung on his walls, even if he had.

Still standing there with the box, Harry says, "What did you have in mind?" He's lived in this house for over thirty years. He's not keen on making any major changes – and there is absolutely no question of Mr. Pickle being moved.

"All those butterflies and bugs and stuff," Eggsy says. He makes a face. "It's kinda creepy, Harry, you gotta admit. I mean, I get collectin' and all, but still. Bugs?"

Harry very carefully does not sigh. Not out loud.

"And I think you should really consider painting in here," Eggsy says. He's getting into it now, looking around the bedroom with interest. "This dark color don't do the room justice. You need something lighter, like a greeny-blue color. Somethin' like that."

Harry sets the box down beside the bed. He has to admit, on this point Eggsy might be right. He painted the walls a dark brown several years ago, and has since come to regret it. A lighter color would open the room up, which it will need given that it's now home to both of them.

That thought makes him smile. It didn't take much coaxing to persuade Eggsy to move in with him, and he's been looking forward to it all week. To finally make it official, to move the last of Eggsy's possessions into this house that has become theirs, shared equally between them. It's not a contest and Eggsy is most certainly not a prize to be won – and yet Harry still feels as though he's been declared a victor, as though he has won at some intangible game of which he barely grasps the rules.

And, well, why not, he thinks as he surveys the room. Why not paint the walls a different color, get a new comforter and set of sheets, new towels to match in the bathroom. Why not start over in here, give the room a bright new look, a physical expression of the way Eggsy has made him feel.

"All right," he says. "We can do that."

Eggsy looks surprised. "Really?" His eyes light up, and Harry thinks – foolishly, insanely – that if he could capture their ever-changing color in paint and cover his walls with it, he would probably never leave this room again.

"Yes," he says. "But before we get too far ahead of ourselves, I suggest we bring in the rest of your things before it starts to rain."

Eggsy jumps. "Shit," he says. "Yeah, let's do that." He hurries out of the bedroom, trainers thumping loudly down the stairs.

Harry follows more slowly, looking around at his house with a new, appraising eye, as though seeing it for the first time.

****

In the end, they decide to repaint both the bedroom and the bathroom. They spend an entire afternoon in the DIY, buying paint and all the supplies necessary. Eggsy is excited about it all, never having done anything like this before. Harry, who remembers all too well the mess and the clean-up required, is less enthusiastic about the job itself.

It's impossible, though, not to smile at Eggsy's eager attitude. He expects that will all change once they get into it, moving heavy furniture around, laying out the painter's tape and the dropcloths and all the prep work that gets to be so tedious. But for now, Harry lets himself get caught up in the fun of it. After all, this is their first home project together. Hopefully the first of many to come.

Having taken so long at the store, there's not enough time to get started today, so instead they settle for doing some of the preparation. They carry everything out of the bedroom and into the office, sleeves rolled up, grunting under the heavy furniture, Eggsy hopping around and cussing a blue streak when he bangs his ankle on the bedframe. It's late by the time they're finished, and Harry is in no mood to fight with the kitchen, so he orders takeaway for dinner. They end the evening slumped on the couch, cartons of greasy food on the coffee table, Eggsy with an icepack on his bruised ankle.

"Still want to do this?" Harry asks.

Eggsy looks up at him and grins. "Fuck yeah."

****

They get started early the next day. Harry climbs the ladder, laying out the blue painter's tape across the ceiling, while Eggsy works on the baseboards. They remove electrical switch plates and set a fan in the hall to get some air circulating so they don't get too overcome by the fumes; the paint claims to have no smell at all, a boast Harry is skeptical of at best. They spread dropcloths on the floor to catch any spills, and then there's nothing left to do but change into old clothes and get started.

The work goes surprisingly fast with another person there, and the paint is indeed mostly fume-free. It will take several coats to cover the dark brown color already on the walls, but since it dries fast, Harry is confident they can be finished before nightfall. Already he likes the new color, a light blue-grey that makes the room appear larger and brighter than before.

He looks over to where Eggsy is down on one knee, working in small brush strokes just above the line of painter's tape covering the baseboard. A lock of hair falls onto his forehead as he bends over, his face a study in concentration. He's wearing a faded T-shirt with a hole near the collar and worn out track pants, but he wears them well, the muscles beneath the old clothes moving with grace.

And suddenly Harry is much less interested in painting.

Eggsy must sense the scrutiny, because he looks up. He sees Harry perched on the ladder, staring at him, and he winks. Then he reaches up and brushes at a spot above his right eyebrow. "You got some…"

Chagrined, Harry reaches up, and sure enough, his fingertips come away wet with paint.

Eggsy grins. "Eh, it all washes off," he says.

Indeed it does, and that thought, of Eggsy naked in the shower, striped in paint and soap alike, makes Harry lose the last of his interest in painting the room. He climbs down the ladder and goes over to the corner where they've set their supplies out. He pulls a few paper towels off the roll and wipes at the paint on his forehead. He hopes he hasn't got it in his hair, then decides it hardly matters. Whether he has or not, he's still going to end up in the shower at the end of the day.

He looks up and sees Eggsy grinning at him. "You're just makin' it worse," Eggsy says. He stands up and walks over, still holding his paintbrush in one hand. "Here, let me."

So Harry suffers the indignity of Eggsy scrubbing at the paint on his forehead. It crosses his mind to wonder if the paint covers up the awful scar left by Valentine's bullet, then he decides not to think about such things. Instead he sets one hand on Eggsy's back and pulls him in for a sweet kiss.

Eggsy sways toward him and kisses him back, and Harry reaches for him with both hands. Eggsy makes a little humming sound against his mouth and wraps one arm around him. The kiss gets deeper and wetter, and Harry forgets all about what they were doing and why. Or rather, he forgets about it until Eggsy pulls away and murmurs, "We ain't never gonna finish if we keep this up."

Harry kisses the corner of his mouth. "I know." He's not one bit sorry, although he _is_ somewhat amused by Eggsy being the voice of responsibility. He could change all that with another kiss, but he accepts – rather reluctantly – that this would not be the wisest course of action. Not when they've still got half the room left to paint. And that's just the first coat.

He releases Eggsy and steps back – and gets a long smear of wet paint down his arm for his troubles.

Shocked, they both stare at the wet paintbrush Eggsy is holding, and the wide stripe of color now adorning Harry's bare forearm. "Oh fuck!" Eggsy exclaims. "I'm so sorry," he says. He looks contrite, but also like he's half a second away from bursting into laughter.

Calmly Harry takes the paintbrush from him. Eggsy lets him do it, clearly expecting a scolding. Instead Harry draws the brush across Eggsy's hand, coating his palm and fingers in paint.

Eggsy inhales sharply. "Oi!"

"Oh dear," Harry says. "Would you look at that."

Wide-eyed, Eggsy stares at him. Slowly he raises the hand covered in paint.

Harry doesn't move. And when Eggsy's palm settles on his face, he just says, "Oh no. Look what you've done now."

"Covered in paint, we are," Eggsy says.

"Yes," Harry says. "Quite observant, aren't you?" The paint feels cool on his cheek. He would like to see it, Eggsy's handprint on his skin like a tattoo, proclaiming ownership. More than that, though, he wants to leave prints of his own on Eggsy's bare skin.

"I got skills, me," Eggsy says with another wink.

"Indeed you do," Harry says. He lets the paintbrush fall to the floor, where it harmlessly spatters the dropcloth.

Their next kiss is not at all sweet. And there is nothing gentle about the way he bears Eggsy to the floor, or the way he pushes at the T-shirt with the hole in it, exposing Eggsy's stomach. He nuzzles at that spot just above Eggsy's navel, smearing paint across the soft skin there and eliciting a hissing breath from Eggsy himself. Both of Eggsy's hands clutch at his head, and now there is most definitely paint in Harry's hair.

They roll over, and the paintbrush is underneath him for a moment, plastered to his T-shirt, which is so old and soft it's one step away from the rag heap. Eggsy's hands plunge beneath the shirt, dragging paint across his back and shoulders, and Harry simply can't stop kissing him.

They're making a godawful mess, and Harry could absolutely care less. He pulls Eggsy's T-shirt up over his head and tosses it without pausing to worry about where it ends up.

The instant his arms are free from the shirt, Eggsy wraps both of them around Harry. They roll again, and now there is paint in Eggsy's hair, too. Harry litters little kisses across Eggsy's throat, licks at the mole on Eggsy's neck, then sucks hard on the same spot, feeling feverish heat rise in the skin beneath his lips.

"Oh fuck!" Eggsy grabs at him hard enough to bruise.

Harry smiles, kisses the mark he just made, and looks down. He sees the way Eggsy's chest rises and falls rapidly, the paint smeared across his stomach, the bulge in his jeans. He lays his palm on the swell of Eggsy's cock. "Perhaps I'll paint this, too."

"You don't…fuck, Harry." Eggsy fumbles at his groin and Harry has to roll aside quickly, before Eggsy can touch him. He has plans for his cock that definitely do not include it being coated in paint.

"Careful, dearest," he says. "Mustn't get paint _everywhere_."

"Oh yeah," Eggsy says. A gleam enters his eyes and he sits up. "Here, watch this, then." He reaches out again with the hand least splattered in paint, and deftly undoes the button of Harry's fly. "Go on," he says. "Lean back."

Harry does so, bracing his weight on his hands behind him. It gives him the perfect angle to watch as Eggsy slides down between his spread legs to end up on his forearms and knees. His arse waggles in the air as he takes hold of Harry's zipper between his teeth and slowly lowers it.

"Izzat bettah?" Eggsy asks, his teeth still about the zipper.

"Much," Harry breathes.

Eggsy noses his jeans aside and presses his cheek to Harry's cock, still trapped behind his underwear. He can't help lifting his hips to push up against Eggsy's face, needing more than this rather innocent touch. In response, Eggsy mouths at the fabric covering Harry's cock, his breath unbearably hot as his tongue drags maddeningly slow, up and up and up.

"Eggsy." He reaches down and grabs Eggsy's face in both hands, pulling him up and forward for a burning kiss.

"Yeah," Eggsy says. "Yeah," and moves with him, pushing Harry down until he's flat on his back, and Eggsy's straddling him and they're both grinding against each other as they gasp into another kiss.

Harry reaches for him, needing to feel Eggsy's skin beneath his hands, to feel the heat of Eggsy's cock on his. He doesn't care about the paint anymore and the mess they're making.

All he wants is Eggsy.

****

Later, they lie together on the dropcloth, and he smiles. His fingerprints march up Eggsy's spine, little blots of blue-grey color that grow lighter as they near the nape of Eggsy's neck. There is paint on Eggsy's cock, a perfect handprint on Harry's arse and another on his hip. A small blob of paint nestles in the crease of Eggsy's nose, and Harry can feel his hair stiffening up as the paint smeared there slowly dries.

"Need to take a shower now," Eggsy says.

"Mmm," Harry agrees. He rubs one foot absently up and down Eggsy's calf.

"Bit stickier than usual," Eggsy says. His hand rests on Harry's shoulder, slowly adhering to the skin as the paint dries.

"Yes," Harry says. He's quite sure this isn't what the dropcloth manufacturers had in mind when they created their product, but it's still good information to have. Useful, even.

"So was you planning this the whole time?" Eggsy asks. "Not that I'm complainin'."

"Not quite," Harry admits. He wishes he were younger then, violently so. He'd like to take Eggsy into the shower and press him up against the wall as he cleans the paint from his skin. He wants to take Eggsy apart all over again.

And he will. Of course he will. But he's selfish enough to wish that he could share in it, too.

"We keep this up and it'll take all week to get this room painted," Eggsy says.

"That would be a shame," Harry says mildly.

Eggsy huffs out a laugh, his chest rising and falling beneath Harry's painted cheek. "Yeah," he says. "A real shame. Lucky we didn't decide to repaint the whole fucking house."

They still could. There are plenty of other options available to them. Eggsy has a say in everything around the house now. (Except for Mr. Pickle; he stays put.) They could get a new dining room set. They could replace the couch. They could decide to tear down the wall between the kitchen and dining room, or redo the laundry room.

They can do anything they want.

But first, they need to take a shower. The paint is starting to itch, and Harry is beginning to feel a bit ridiculous. Playing around is all well and good, but they have a job to do, and they need to get back to it.

He sits up and looks down at Eggsy. "Come on," he says. "Time for that shower."

"Yeah," Eggsy says with a faint grimace. He sits up and scratches at the paint smeared along his neck. "You first?"

"Nonsense," Harry says. "This is your house now, too. We'll go together."

Eggsy seems surprised by this for a moment, then he grins. "Yeah, okay," he says. "Together."


End file.
